


Physical Graffiti

by evilmouse



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Art, Body Paint, Canon Compliant, Canon Related, Casual Sex, Edible Body Paint, F/M, Fusion of Star Wars Legends and Disney Canon, Language Kink, Mandalorian, Mandalorian Culture, Mando'a, Missing Scene, Oral Sex, POV Sabine Wren, Pilots, Porn With Plot, Post-Star Wars: A New Hope, Pre-Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back, Rare Pairings, Rebels, Rogue Squadron (Star Wars), The Erotic Adventures of Luke Skywalker, Thila, X-Wing(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24248071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmouse/pseuds/evilmouse
Summary: Sabine needs some down time and a distraction.She finds a little of the first and a lot of the second.
Relationships: Luke Skywalker/Sabine Wren
Comments: 56
Kudos: 67





	1. Spectre Five, meet Red Five

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JessKo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessKo/gifts).



> ...who suggested this pairing and always inspires me with her art.
> 
> Many thanks and much gratitude to my beta [JediDryad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JediDryad/pseuds/JediDryad) for her enthusiasm and encouragement.

The flight to Thila had been more therapy than trajectory. When she’d received Hera’s summons, Sabine had pretended reluctance, but in truth been happy for the change of scenery. Lothal held so many memories for her now, and no matter how rich and satisfying, there was no avoiding the tinge of sorrow, regret, and what-ifs that seemed to shadow her days and prolong her nights. Planning her search for Ezra—that was where she found strength, where she could lose herself for a while. Art was the only other escape Sabine had. Yet recently, it served not so much as an oubliette as a mirror, reflecting what she wished to leave behind, highlighting the darkness that threatened and stalked her hopes. 

But navigating an unnecessarily complex route through sheets of the galaxy’s brightest stars, pushing the borrowed RZ-1T beyond its operational specs, Sabine let everything else disappear. She had almost forgotten what it felt like to relax. So by the time the small starfighter landed at its assigned berth at the hidden Rebel base, Sabine had already mentally plotted an even more complicated path back to Lothal for the return trip. Flying was the closest thing to fun she’d had in long time.

The Iotia mountain range twisted an unpredictable jagged scab across Thila’s surface. Its rock was soft and easily tunneled—even with the outdated mining equipment the Rebellion had to rely on—and therefore ideal for a secret location. If Chopper hadn’t sent the ship precise coordinates, it would have been impossible to steer her way to the outer spaceport, an arched canopy at the mouth of the south hangar.

Sabine took off her helmet and scanned the area. Setting it at her feet, she climbed out of the cockpit and jumped lightly to the ground, admiring the ingenuity of the underground base’s camouflage up close. Hera was nowhere in sight, but that wasn’t necessarily odd. The celebrated captain of the Ghost now commanded Phoenix Squadron. Her new division was much in demand, proving to Imperials everywhere that they needed to redefine their notions of “impossible” where Rebels were concerned.

A shiny protocol unit walked stiffly over to her and bowed politely.

“Greetings, Mistress Sabine. Perhaps you remember me. I am C-3PO—”

“Of course I remember you,” Sabine assured the droid. “Where’s your friend who’s so good at taking out stormtroopers?”

The golden figure tutted and shook his head woefully. “R2-D2 was gravely damaged in the Rebellion’s last major battle, I am afraid, and is still undergoing maintenance.” Sabine nodded sympathetically, but was happy to hear that the little astromech was fixable. “I have a message from Captain Syndulla. Would you like to hear it?”

Ignoring the oddity of the question, briefly wondering what the droid would do if she replied in the negative, Sabine smiled tightly. “Yes.”

“Very well.” C-3PO’s voice modulator grew even more formal as he stood at attention and spoke: 

_Sabine, sorry I am going to miss you—something came up. Mon Mothma is expecting you at 1600 standard in her private office. Anyone can show you the way. I promise to comm soon_. 

Threepio finished reciting, clearly proud of himself. “I, of course, informed Captain Syndulla I would be more than happy to help you pass the time, and escort you to Mon Mothma’s office at the appointed hour, however she was quite insistent that it was not necessary.”

One gloved hand covered her smile of silent gratitude at Hera’s diplomatic foresight. “Thanks, I’m going to wander around for a bit on my own,” Sabine replied, already starting for the wide hangar doors where the squadrons’ fighters were being repaired. If nothing else, she could see what sort of nose art the ships were sporting these days. It would kill a few minutes before she had to track down Mon Mothma and make her delivery.

Vaguely registering the affected protests of the protocol droid behind her, Sabine took off at a slight jog, just fast enough to keep him from trying to catch up, but not enough to seem like a deliberate ditch. The cavernous interior of the mountain was dark after the cloudless daylight, and she slowed to give her eyes a chance to adjust.

Inside the hangar, the crisp, oxygen-rich air of Thila’s outdoors was laced with the familiar smells of grease, fuel, and durasteel. The bustle of the place was comforting—it took a few minutes for anyone to notice her, and that was saying something. It wasn’t often Sabine didn’t immediately stand out in her vibrantly-painted Mandalorian armor and kaleidoscopic hair. She paused, arms crossed, in front of a row of battle-scarred X-Wings, wondering why none of these fuselages were decorated.

A few of the Y-Wings had unimaginative sexy or anthropomorphic mascots, but the T-65s were even more boring. With a snort of artistic disapproval, Sabine ducked underneath the closest nose, neck craning to check the opposite side. Nothing, just the same burnished silver finish as every other fighter. What was wrong with these pilots? Ship art wasn’t just fun and a creative outlet, it was a morale thing, a chance to flaunt individuality within a group, a team-building exercise for squadrons. The fact that the Empire’s TIEs were forbidden from indulging seemed like a bonus, further incentive to splatter color—and as much of it as possible—everywhere. Sabine made a mental note to ask Hera about it. Surely the Alliance hadn’t enforced some sort of preposterous regulation against it—

“Hi.”

The voice startled, and she almost banged her head against the cockpit ladder. It wasn’t often someone was able to sneak up on her.

“Hi,” she replied, turning to address what could accurately be described as a walking sunbeam. The man approaching her wore dull grey mechanic’s overalls, stained with oil, but all the dirt and grime in the system wasn’t enough to hide the gilded tan of his face or dim the appropriated starlight in those sparkling eyes.

 _It’s just spacer goggles,_ Sabine rationalized her own reaction automatically. It was a common galactic phenomenon—spend too much time in your operational bubble, and the sexual drought resulted in a lack of discernment when you left it. Here, it would seem she was surrounded by eligible partners, even if typically she wouldn’t look twice. And it was true—she’d been so busy with Lothal’s affairs for the past few months that _any_ young pilot looked good. In the case of this guy…much better than good. The stranger shone with an indefinable, abstruse light, and Sabine felt absurdly certain the after-image of his brilliant silhouette was already burned on her retinas. 

“My ship,” he said proudly, turning a dimpled chin towards the singed cockpit. His mostly blond hair flipped oddly forward at the movement, fluffy strands curtaining his eyes. “Needs some work, though.”

Everyone knew the Alliance had suffered enormous losses lately, so Sabine couldn’t quickly come up with an appropriate comment. 

“What’s your callsign, Rebel?” she asked instead, unsure if she was looking for an excuse to get away or one to stay. 

Sabine struggled not to stare in the space between query and reply, the shadows of his cheekbones throwing his face into dramatic light, further highlighting his good looks. The longer she looked at the man, the more details her artist’s brain recorded—the way his jawline managed to be both fine and strong, the slope of his nose that was almost perfect, as if sketched by a child, the strange aura he was exuding, something spirited and familiar that she didn’t quite understand. It would be a challenge to any portraiture. 

Wiping the hair from his eyes with one wrist, the pilot looked a little sad when he answered, the change in mood palpable.

“Red Five.”

Red Squadron. Sabine preferred to avoid battle reports—best not to dwell on casualties after the fact; it made more sense to devote attention to minimizing them upfront. But it was a well-known fact that Red Squadron had been all but wiped out at the Death Star. This guy was either incredibly lucky or incredibly talented to have survived. The charred X-Wing only told her it had been a very close call.

She nodded mutely, searching for her customary bravado to change the subject. It eluded her—her traitorous brain instead pointing out the purity of color in his blue-infused eyes.

“What’s yours?”

It took her a second—she’d almost forgotten the question. As Sabine hesitated, the man turned around, depositing the hydrospanner he’d been holding on a small utility cart. The view from behind was equally enticing. _Karabast_. It really had been too long.

“What makes you think I have one?” she asked with a little toss of her head.

Red Five shrugged as he faced her once more, something self-conscious and awfully appealing about the gesture. “The way you were checking out the ships. Like you knew what you were looking for… Not like…you know…”

He looked nervous as he trailed off, those gorgeous eyes suddenly finding other things to focus on, his mouth thinning as if dissatisfied with speech. 

This guy was shy, Sabine realized with secret delight. An Outer Rim accent didn’t _necessarily_ mean inexperienced—she rarely based impressions on homeworlds—but damn that slight flush and accompanying uncertainty was adorable. Most guys she talked to, especially strangers, took in her brash and colorful appearance and decided what she needed was a strong approach, a dominant male. It was an instant turn-off, always had been. Acting like Sabine needed _anything_ was the wrong tack, in fact. This guy, however, apparently wasn’t like most guys.

The blush seemed to indicate he was interested, although not a particularly confident seducer. Sabine appreciated the lack of arrogance—fighter pilots usually had a surplus of it. _And Jedi_ , she mentally groaned, thinking of Ezra and his misguided crush.

“I’m a Five too,” she answered with a grin, laying a hand on the underside of the X-Wing’s nose, glancing at the carbon scoring. “Spectre Five.”

She didn’t give him time to respond, curious about Red Squadron’s art. His fighter group had been around for years. Sabine had been positive they used to paint numerical designations in bright red paint on the hulls, but none were visible in the hangar. 

“But actually I was looking for the art. Your mascot or symbol. A lot of Rebel fighters used to have them, but…” she gestured to the rows of undecorated X and Y-Wings, “…it seems like it’s no longer a thing. You should have _something_ , you know? Marking your ship. So why is that?”

Red Five shook his head, as if processing too much information at once, then held up one palm. He had nice hands, she cataloged the trait automatically. Long fingers, grease-smudged. Mechanic’s hands.

“Wait, did you say _Spectre_ Five?” Sabine nodded. “We don’t have a Spectre Squadron…” he faltered, then seemed embarrassed, wrinkling his nose. “Do we?”

“Well, we’re spectres,” Sabine winked. “Like ghosts. We wouldn’t be very good if everyone knew about us.”

The handsome face fell. “You’re messing with me.”

“I’m not.”

Shaking his head, clearly not believing her, the pilot addressed her other question.

“For the art—I don’t know. I’ve never seen anyone painting their ship. Some…” He tried again. “I figured the fighters that had it were older or something.” Red Five looked with interest at her armor, scanning up and down. “Guess I should have known you were into art.” 

Sabine tried to deny the tingle his gaze produced. She felt it like a very pleasant itch beneath her skin, responding as surely as if he’d touched her. 

“That,” the man lifted an open hand towards her chestplate, “is really amazing. Where’d you get it?”

“Get it?” Sabine was offended and didn’t try to hide it. “I _made_ it! I’m _Mandalorian_! Do I look like I’m playing dress up to you?!” _Why did the cute ones have to be so stupid?_ she wondered as disgust polluted her attraction to him. What a laserbrain. Time to go find someone to ask about Mon Mothma. She’d had enough of Red Five. Sabine turned on her heel, scowling.

“Hey, hey, sorry!”

A hand barely grazed her shoulder and Sabine spun quickly, grabbing for his wrist and ready to twist. This space jockey was compounding her annoyance and really pushing his luck.

But when she went to twist…air.

“I’m _really_ sorry.” The man’s voice was contrite, while Sabine was trying to figure out how he’d eluded her grasp. “I’ve never seen anything like your armor. It’s beautiful.” He offered an apologetic smile that was irritatingly earnest. “Most pilots I know aren’t artists.” Sabine frowned at that. “Or spectres,” he added, obviously trying to lighten the mood. Her glare, she hoped, conveyed his failure.

“Don’t _ever_ grab a Mandalorian, Red Five,” she all but spat in his face. He could keep his apology—she was having none of it—but still wondering how he’d avoided her deflective defense. She didn’t meet a lot of Rebels with hand-to-hand reflexes like that, even fighter pilots.

“I’ll remember that,” he promised, “and really, I apologize. I would never want to insult you. Actually…” 

A hopeful look on the pilot’s face appeared like the sun coming out of a cloud—a lift of brows, rounded eyes, and determined press of lips. Sabine could no longer decide if she wanted to encourage that look or stamp it out. Red Five was undeniably adorable, and the fact that he seemed the opposite of all the potential partners she normally encountered—shy, naïve, polite—was no doubt part of the temptation. Not to mention ridiculously good-looking, she admitted to herself. That didn’t hurt. Sabine forced the scowl off her lips. Stupid wasn’t the worst thing he could be, after all. And he _had_ apologized. More than once.

“…You know, one Five to another,” he continued, looking less comfortable but more confident now, forehead furrowed with sincerity “I was thinking—”

“Luke!” A woman’s strident voice interrupted his sentence. Sabine didn’t react, waiting for him to finish. Red Five’s head, however, had snapped to the side, a devastatingly bright smile dominating his features.

“Over here!” He waved.

Sabine followed the wave to see the former Senator Organa, Princess Leia, marching with authority across the floor. The Princess’ eyes swept over Sabine in quick evaluation as she sped up.

“Sabine! Hera mentioned you might be joining us!” Before Sabine could protest, the princess had pulled her into a crippling embrace, much to the surprise of both Red Five and herself. The petite woman hadn’t been quite so effusive the last time they met.

“It’s good to see you, Senator…uh…”

“Just Leia is fine,” the Rebel leader smiled. “Say you’ll be staying? We could use someone like you here.” Turning to the pilot, she looped one arm in his. Sabine tried to figure out if it was meant to be proprietary—she wouldn’t blame Leia—or simple camaraderie. “I see you met Luke.”

Red Five—Luke—shook his head with a grimace. “I’ve been busy putting my foot in my mouth.”

Sabine took pity, chalking her indulgence up to the attraction. _Spacer goggles_ , her mind excused her again.

“We haven’t been formally introduced. Yet.”

With a knowing sigh, Leia pulled back and rolled her eyes sympathetically at Sabine. “Sabine Wren, this is Luke Skywalker. Good at getting into trouble but also—fortunately—good at many other things as well. Luke, this is Sabine Wren, one of Captain Syndulla’s old crew, member of the Lothal resistance cell, explosives expert, linguist, artistic inspiration for the Alliance crest, and a better field operative than anyone on base.” The Princess beamed at both of them and then reached for Luke’s arm again. The two of them seemed to share the same inner brilliance at that moment, Sabine thought, wondering at it. Maybe they _were_ a couple.

“We’ve worked together in the past and I hope we do so again,” Leia finished.

Luke laughed, and Sabine allowed herself a mental curse at the sound. Of _course_ he had a great laugh. And was even more handsome as a result.

“Troublemaker,” he echoed Leia’s assessment, clearly amused. “My primary qualification, apparently.”

Leia cocked an elegant eyebrow his way. “Oh, didn’t realize you were trying to impress.” She turned back to Sabine, a different sort of smile on her lips. It was hard to interpret. 

“Let me try again, then.” She glanced with affection at the pilot and then met Sabine’s skeptical look without flinching. “Luke’s one of our best, a hero of the Battle of Yavin, and we’d all be dead without him.” 

Of course. Luke Skywalker. She’d been so distracted, the last name hadn’t quite registered. Everyone had heard about the boy who came from nowhere and did the impossible. Sabine liked people who did the impossible. And troublemakers made good Rebels, in her experience. She opened her mouth to comment, but Leia was still talking.

“Now, sorry to interrupt, but you _are_ late, Luke. Did you forget the debriefing with Voren? He commed and no one knew where you were. Wedge was heading to your quarters. Lucky I checked here.”

“Yeah, lucky,” Luke grumbled, evidently not pleased at being found. “Let me just get cleaned up—”

“No time,” Leia snapped, starting to walk away. “This interview is important. See you later Sabine?”

She barely had a second to wave before Leia dragged Luke down the corrugated aisle towards the hangar office and exit to the deeper base.

~~

The meeting with Rebel High Command had been mostly painless. Sabine delivered the TIE/D flight data recorder as promised, satisfied at being able to consider that long-overdue mission at last accomplished. She’d been pleased to bump into Hobbie on her way to the temporary quarters she’d been assigned. He talked a lot. It was a good distraction—she’d been dangerously close to asking someone where this Voren’s office was, thinking about continuing her conversation with Luke. A bad idea, probably. But Hobbie was an old friend, and she agreed to join him in the mess for an early dinner.

Just after they’d sat down with trays of surprisingly appetizing-looking rations, a churlish, stocky pilot interrupted.

“Hobbie, Skywalker’s looking for you.”

The young man’s face lit up with delight. “Me?” 

“Yeah, he asked for Red Six’s standby right? That’s you.”

Hobbie’s happiness faded as quickly as it had arrived. “Yeah…” he confirmed, looking down at his untouched food and blinking rapidly.

Sabine felt for him. Whoever Red Six had been, she was selfishly glad that Hobbie had been a reserve fighter, not the principal. 

“Well, jump to it! Word is that Red is now Rogue. And Skywalker’s in charge. Don’t worry, I’ll keep your friend company,” the pilot jeered and Sabine made her face as blank as possible. Skywalker was a squad leader now? And changing the name. Not a bad idea, she conceded, given the tragedy that had befallen the Reds. Pilots were a suspicious sort; maybe a new designation would help them move on.

“Rogue?” Hobbie repeated, looking confused, but getting to his feet slowly. “Sorry, Sabine, I have to…”

“It’s fine,” she waved him away as the newly-arrived pilot thudded into Hobbie’s seat. “See you later.”

As soon as her friend had left the mess, Sabine also stood, snagging a roll to take with her. She wasn’t in the mood to humor some cocky jerk, and she already had this one pegged. For all she knew, the guy could have made up the reason for Hobbie to leave to get her alone. 

“Wait a minute—” he started. Stormclouds gathered in her eyes as Sabine shook her head slowly. The man thought better of whatever he had planned to say.

“Bye,” he grunted, clearly unhappy at her departure.

“Bye,” she matched the grunt, heading for the mess hall exit. 

~~

The tunnels of the newly-established base were cluttered, and Sabine changed direction for the sixth time, cursing under her breath. She was supposedly in residential block eight, but nothing about this section looked remotely residential. Taking a turn down a smaller passageway, she vowed if she couldn’t find 8-16, her assigned room, in the next five minutes, she would knock on the nearest door and throw herself on the mercy of the responder.

Or else go back and sleep on the ship. At this point, it wouldn’t be a bad idea. Sabine leaned against a superfluous crate near a cratered gap in the hallway, considering. Yeah, back to the ship. She’d made her delivery. If she stayed here, she would think too much about that blasted hero, his extraordinarily handsome face, and his borderline-insulting assumptions about Mandalorian armor that she was all too quick to forgive.

Some voices in the corridor, getting closer. Straightening up, she took a deep breath, debating as they grew clearer.

“It’s just that her ship’s still here…”

“Just ask Leia, kid. You _said_ they were friends.”

“Of course that’s what _you’d_ suggest.” Complaint mixed with indignation in that Outer Rim accent.

Luke. His voice was already registered in her memory. Sabine didn’t want to admit she was lost, not to _him_. So, with determination in her step, she walked directly towards them, giving the appearance of purpose.

“I don't know, maybe...” Luke continued, just as they rounded the corner and Sabine, head down, passed quickly.

“Well—” the other man started, but was interrupted by a smacking sound that Sabine assumed was Luke shutting him up. She had made it past them, barely, but then—

“Hey Spectre Five!”

She grinned at the floor, settling her features into something dismissive before turning around slowly, folding her arms.

“Hey, Red Five.” Her tone lacked the enthusiasm of his, deliberately. Too bad he had company, or Sabine may have been a little less guarded.

As for Luke’s companion, the smirk on his face couldn’t hide his good looks, either. _Spacer goggles again,_ Sabine cursed. The new arrival looked rapidly from one of them to the other, as if assembling some unfamiliar machine parts, then his eyes widened in apparent comprehension.

“Oh, you talking to _Luke_?” He jerked a thumb to the individual in question, that smirk turning into a blinding smile, tailor-made for persuasion and seduction. Sabine was immune to those sorts of smiles, and grateful for it. Most on the receiving end, she imagined, wouldn’t be so lucky. 

“Luke, he’s not Red Five anymore. This,” he punched the younger man’s arm, “is Rogue _Leader_.” 

“And this,” Luke punched right back, “is Han Solo.”

“Nice to meet you,” Sabine said, without a hint of pleasure in the words. “And congrats on your promotion, Rogue Leader.” She turned to go, hoping she wasn’t heading down some pointless corridor that would betray her lack of direction, but Luke jogged over to her side.

“Do you have a minute? I wanted to talk with you about something.”

Sabine cocked her head, thankful her expression didn’t betray the way her heart accelerated at those words. She had already decided, she realized. She needed to have a good time, and Luke Skywalker was going to show it to her. Just had to get rid of that…scoundrel observing with knowing amusement over his shoulder.

“About what?” Her tone was a bit icier than intended.

“About…” Luke stammered a moment, then recovered. “Art, you know. Painting the X-Wings.”

Art. A good line, well-chosen. Normally she would have been genuinely open to discussing art, ideas for the newly-christened Rogue Squadron’s mascot or logo. But right now, the tightness in her chest had travelled between her thighs, and the dim shadows of the equipment-strewn corridor wouldn’t hide her interest much longer.

“Well kids,” Han Solo sauntered around them, “I’ve got someplace to be, so uh…have fun.” He grinned, and it should have been off-putting, but Sabine found herself smiling back. It was a good thing to know when you weren’t wanted, and apparently this Han Solo had that radar locked down. He almost stumbled against a decommissioned drive casing as he disappeared down the hallway. 

They were alone.

Sabine’s eyes met Luke’s, seeing far too many questions there. She didn’t have any answers, and she didn’t have time to play games. Neither did he. Mon Mothma had mentioned an imminent deployment to supplement their forces at Aargonar, as well as the likely need to evacuate Thila within the next month. Time was never on a Rebel’s side, that was the unfortunate truth, and no one stayed anywhere for long.

“So…” she started, allowing her lips a slight curve. “Art.”

“Yeah,” he smiled, the look a weakening mixture of innocence and excitement. “Would you, you know, like to paint something?”

“I’d like to paint _you_ ,” she replied, without even a heartbeat’s consideration. It was true, and if nothing else, would get them out of this hallway.

“Me?” The smile got a little sunnier, a little less hesitant. Luke seemed to understand the overture for what it was, at least. Not _that_ innocent, then. “All right! Uh…”

“I just need to pick up some supplies. Where should I meet you?”

“I’m in the barracks, so…”

Yes, he definitely understood the overture, the implication that he didn’t bunk alone was further proof. Good. “I’m assigned 8-16,” Sabine informed him. “I’ll paint you there. Meet me in…” she did a mental calculation of how long it would take her to find her way back to the A-Wing and prepare “…an hour. Can you find some tihaar and bring it?”

“Tihaar?” He saw her face, and was quick to explain. “I know what it is, but do we need—”

“Can you get a bottle?” She cut him off. 

Luke seemed to want to continue the discussion and thought better of it. “Sure. Yes, I can.”

Sabine wondered with amusement which pilot’s stash of the Mandalorian liquor would come up short tomorrow, and nodded. “A half bottle will do. Got it?”

“Got it!” The hero of the Rebellion made no attempt to stifle his enthusiasm, probably another reason why she found him so attractive, Sabine supposed. Luke was the opposite of suave, and in a galaxy where she was often surrounded by artifice, that was more seductive than the most charming suitor.

He looked like he wanted to say something else, his mouth tilting up, a question or come-on lurking on his tongue, she was certain. The younger ones never knew how to stop when they were ahead, Sabine sighed.

“One standard hour,” she said pointedly in farewell, before he made her want to change her mind.

“Great,” he beamed, and Sabine turned back the way she came, hoping she would be able to find her destination by retracing her steps.


	2. Polychromatic

Sabine made her way through the winding corridors, her blood heated in anticipation. She had to ask directions twice to find her way out of the underground tunnels and back to the ship. 

Along the route, she dodged two dinner invitations and twice as many clumsy attempts at conversation. Sabine was used to attention, didn’t mind it, but it was worrying how much she was _basking_ in it this afternoon. Sure, Luke was handsome, but half of these Rebels looked delicious. Good thing her meds were up-to-date. Also a good thing Hera was off-planet, because otherwise, she was certain her friend would have some joykilling advice to impart regarding spontaneous fraternization, casual entanglements and no-strings encounters. 

_Already found the evening’s entertainment,_ Sabine assured herself, as she curtly returned a young officer’s greeting. Polite, not encouraging, that was the key. Her fellow Rebels deserved respect for what they were up against, what they did, but it was easier to offer her best ice queen impression rather than allow things to evolve to where more direct rejection was required. 

Back at the A-Wing, she pulled herself easily up into the cockpit and dug around behind the seat in the small cargo area. Sabine didn’t go anywhere without art supplies, but on this particular trip had downsized—leaving most of her airbrushes and stencils back on Lothal. It was a short trip, and space was tight enough. But the minimal kit had what she needed. Letting out a relieved exhale, Sabine extracted her pingo stash from where it had been all-but-forgotten, tucked into the bottom corner of the box. She hadn’t used it in ages, but it was well-protected, the vibrant vials cushioned in a cocoon of stained zeyd-cloth. Stowing the pingo set into her bag, she selected a few brushes of varying sizes, then decided to toss in some colorsticks for good measure.

Pingo was comestible pigment—a slippery yet quick-drying tincture that was basically condensed sugarleaf. When added to tihaar, it provided an instant color palette. Sabine felt giddy at the possibilities. Sure, it was likely not the best idea she ever had, but she wasn’t going to second guess herself. They were adults. It would be fun. Admittedly, rather inconvenient that the pilot she’d found most intriguing was Luke Skywalker. Not the most prudent choice, unfortunately, but she hoped his fame would manifest as discretion when it came to telling tales. Otherwise, she would just threaten him, Sabine thought with a grin, slinging her bag over one shoulder before securing the ship and leaping gracefully down.

Not chancing another swing through the main hangar or mess, Sabine found Threepio, that friendly protocol droid, standing with decidedly human unease outside the base’s command center. He was, of course, pleased to direct her to her guest quarters, even offering to accompany. Sabine felt sorry for the droid, and, after a glance at the chrono, decided to let him. She didn’t want to chance getting lost again, and only had about twenty minutes before Luke was expected.

Regretting her choice almost immediately thanks to his constant and fairly useless chatter, she urged Threepio to hurry. They wound around more cluttered corners and finally passed the 8-block perimeter. This was close enough.

“Thank you, C-3PO,” she said, halting in the underground corridor. “Just tell me the way from here, please.”

“I don’t mind, Mistress Sabine, I assure you—” he began.

“Yes, I know, but it’s very important I find it on my own. A sort of test, all right?”

The droid seemed not to know what to do with this information, and Sabine watched as his head tilted first up, then down, as if the movement accompanied some serious logical calculation.

“Very well,” he agreed, and gave her easy directions to her destination. With a last wave of thanks, she raced down the corridor, grudgingly impressed with the electrical setup that the Rebels had rigged down here. There were lights, plumbing, air and climate controls. It was _called_ a temporary base, but nonetheless could be used for extended periods. After having to move so often to keep ahead of the Empire, the Alliance engineers had gotten to be experts at establishing quick installations. 

The door of 8-16 was plainly marked, and Sabine unlocked it with an old-fashioned key card that General Bygar had provided. The portal stuttered open to a small suite, undoubtedly intended for higher ranks, despite the modest size. There was a minuscule refresher unit attached to the main room, which contained a spartan bunk, a modular desk with attached stool, and a squat bureau. A carved alcove shelf held a small caf machine, instant caf, two expired ration bars, and some mugs.

Sabine carefully detached her pauldrons, vambraces, and breastplate, working her way down as the brightly-decorated knee and shinguards came off, revealing the form-fitting black armorweave beneath. The bodysuit was comfortable, and she hadn’t packed anything else, so Sabine turned her attention to the paint.

There were four mugs and four saucers, which would do nicely, as she had eight different pingo. Any mixing of colors could be done on her canvas, she grinned, feeling her heart beat a little faster. If Luke hadn’t found any tihaar, though, they would have to improvise. Carefully unwrapping the zeyd-cloth, she took inventory. Red, Orange, Gold, Green, Grey, Black, Blue, and White. Traditional colors. Pleased with herself, she set them orderly on the desk, surprised by a knock. He was early.

Taking a slow breath, wondering at her own nervousness, Sabine opened the door.

Luke had changed out of his mechanic’s clothes. He wore basic black pants that looked one size too small—not that she was complaining—and a royal blue tunic that set off his eyes nicely. His hair looked much the same—mussed and soft. She didn’t hide her assessment, and stepped aside, ushering him into the room.

“Hi,” he said, sounding just as nice as she remembered. Luke's tone and appearance affirmed the wisdom of her choice, and Sabine felt better, calmer, than just a moment before. “I brought the tihaar.”

He pronounced it wrong. She debated, but couldn’t resist. “It’s tee-hahr,” she smiled, taking the bottle from him. It was three-quarters full, definitely adequate. “Thanks.”

Luke was looking around the room, apparently embarrassed at the correction. “Sorry. Tihaar.” At her nod, he recovered his wickedly sweet smile. “And I guess we should thank Han. Part of his personal stash.”

“Oh is it?” she asked, looking skeptically at the label. Guys like Han—at least her first impression of him—may not know the difference between real Mandalorian tihaar and Naboo wine. She unscrewed the cap and gave it a sniff. The thick aroma of velvety, ripe varos fruit filled her nostrils. The good stuff. Fantastic.

“You look nice,” Luke said, apparently working his way through some “first date” phrasebook he’d read. Sabine tried not to laugh. 

“So do you, Rogue Leader,” she grinned, pointing to the bed. “Ready to be painted?”

“I’m just Luke, really,” he said, following the line of her finger with obvious confusion. “At least when I’m not in the cockpit. And uh…is that where you want me?”

As the words came out he seemed to regret them, but Sabine was unsympathetic to his reticence. 

“Yes, of course. Take off your clothes.”

Luke’s eyes rounded, his mouth fell comically before he snapped it closed.

“Don’t you, you know, want to—” Sabine crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, waiting for him to finish. Luke floundered and then squared his shoulders, as if determined not to submit. “Why don’t we talk a little? I’d like to get to know you.”

“And I’d like to get to know _you_ ,” Sabine returned, “but I thought we agreed that I would paint you, and the night isn’t getting younger, so let’s talk while I do. I’ll need to learn things about you anyway, to do it properly.”

“But…uh…” Again he seemed a bit lost, and looked past her towards the array of mugs and saucers. “Where’s your dataeasel? The canvas?”

She gave up holding back the laughter. “ _You’re_ the canvas Luke. I said I was painting _you_ , not painting a _portrait_ of you.” At the young man’s look of surprise, she took pity. “I thought you understood…”

His blue eyes moved back to the paints on the desk, then to her discarded armor, returned to the paints, then finally settled on her face. 

“I didn’t.” Running a hand through his hair, Luke sat heavily on the edge of the bed. “I guess…all right.” He started to unfasten the tunic. “I feel pretty stupid right about now,” he admitted, eyes drifting to follow his hands.

“Luke,” Sabine’s voice was soft. She didn’t want him to feel intimidated to the point of discomfort—that wouldn’t end well for either of them. He looked up to meet her gaze as she stepped over and sat next to him on the bed. “I promise you’ll enjoy it. Trust me?”

“Of course,” he answered, and she melted a little bit at his tone, his ready assent. Luke was as sweet as he appeared, apparently, and soon he’d be covered in paint as sugary as he merited. Leaning in, Sabine intended to plant a quick kiss on his lips. Getting that hurdle over with would go a long way towards putting him at ease, she sensed. But the instant their lips touched, she was tumbling into something bright, welcoming, and fiery, and quickly pulled back. Dangerous, this adorable pilot with his uneven lips. He was already ducking to capture hers again but she stood up as if a vibrowhip had cracked, impressing herself with her control. Stars, the man’s mouth tasted good.

“Pants too,” she added, turning her back to give him the illusion of privacy. Fixing her attention on the desk, she picked up the bottle of tihaar and started opening the pingo vials.

Sabine could feel Luke’s presence like a tractor beam behind her, trying to suck her back into his heat and light. Blinking for focus, she took a token swig of the liquor, the burn in her throat centering her, then continued her work. Just a small thumbnail-sized portion of pingo, two dose-cups worth of tihaar, and mixed with a rapid spin of a brush end. The result was opaque, vivid, and perfect for bodypaint. 

“Ready,” Luke said, clearing his throat, and she turned around to take him in. 

The view was more intoxicating than undiluted Mandallian Narcolethe. Sabine’s stomach seemed to shrink, her lungs fighting for air as if she’d been punched. What a subject she had chosen. Luke Skywalker had been artistically designed, tan skin stretched tight over lean muscles like the finest starblossom canvas melded to an orowood frame. Objectively, she would no longer attribute her attraction to a protracted dearth of options. He was simply beautiful. 

Of course he’d left his basics on—she wasn’t surprised given his earlier reaction—but at least boots and socks had come off. Some Rebels slept in theirs.

Luke had folded the meager pillow in two to raise his neck, hands behind his head. The position highlighted the muscles of his biceps, the shadowed bulge of a vein travelling down the inside length of his forearm. The breadth of her living canvas was smooth and completely unmarked. This pilot had resisted the lure of tattooed motivation, unlike many young recruits to the Alliance’s cause. She was glad for it, doubting even someone as skilled as Bojam Rees could do anything but diminish his perfection with fleshink.

The temporary kind, though, was still a challenge—to create body art that didn’t seem excessive or needless, something that worked with his form to enhance rather than hide. Quite a different task than the one she’d anticipated: splashing color to tease, swirling brushes to entice, with art merely part of the erotic preliminaries. Now, looking at him, such preparation was superfluous. Her body agreed, blood flowing like quicksilver, building pleasant heat low in her belly that was a struggle to ignore. But Sabine was up to the challenge. She would adapt, already plotting how to blend shades using his sun-struck coloring.

Luke’s breath hitched as her appraisal drifted downwards, loud in the silence, and a reminder of her own lack of response. She was not the only one looking forward to this, the evidence barely hidden against his thigh. Biting her lip, she convinced herself the delay would pay off.

“Great.” Sabine dragged out the nested plasteel stool and sat, eyes fixed on Luke’s heated blue stare. “Let me explain how this is going to work.”

He nodded, some of the confidence leaving, but stayed in his pose.

“Art isn’t just for decoration. It tells a story. It has history, meaning, and purpose. Follow me so far?” Luke nodded again, hands leaving his head and coming to his sides. He propped himself up on one elbow, listening. “When I said I was going to paint you, I meant I’m also going to paint your story.” She jerked her head in the direction of her motley-colored armor, carefully piled on the floor. “See that? That’s my story. My history. So let’s work on yours.”

Luke had followed her head’s inclination to the armor and took a moment to come back to her regard.

“Where should I start?” he asked, in a voice that was both curious and sincere. She was beginning to like him too much. 

“Well, something simple. What’s your favorite color?” She held up a paintbrush, twirling it in her fingers for emphasis. “That’s an easy foundation.”

“Orange.” He didn’t hesitate. 

“Orange?” Not what she’d expected, but it sort of made sense. “Like a flightsuit?” Reaching for the orange pingo, Sabine selected a flat brush to apply it.

Luke laughed as she stood and walked over to the bed. “I guess, hadn’t thought of that though.” He shrugged, the movement wrinkling the standard-issue sheets. “I’m from Tatooine, and the suns were always prettiest when they turned the sky orange. Sometimes pink or purple,” he grinned, “like your armor, bright and soft, hot and soothing all at once.” His eyes followed her fingers as she swirled the brush in the paint. “But orange feels like home.”

Carefully checking the absorption in the bristles, Sabine outlined an orange circle just below the left side of Luke’s ribcage, testing the tint. It was warm like his kiss, a subdued vibrancy against the bronze of his skin.

“Orange,” she commented, filling in the circle, “symbolizes passion, the lust for life in Mandalorian art.” Luke sucked in a breath and the edge of the brush slipped outside the line. 

“Sorry,” he apologized, but Sabine just swiped up the surfeit with her index finger and licked it clean. Luke’s body tensed at the sight.

“You can _eat_ it?” He sounded incredulous. 

“Sure,” she replied. “It’s very edible. And rather tasty, actually. The sugarleaf in the pigment balances the sting of the tihaar.” She rubbed a finger along the inner rim of the caf mug holding the orange color, then placed it before his lips. “Try.”

Lifting his neck, Luke captured her finger completely, lips outlining and sucking gently as he tasted the pingo compound. Sabine pulled away with a slight ‘pop’. 

“It’s really good. I like sweet things.”

“Me too,” she smiled, finishing the orange circle on his abdomen. Next she got the white pingo, adding highlights to the circle. Now it was a sun. 

“So you said Tatooine is your homeworld?” she asked, switching colors again. “Should we make a second sun then?” Mute, Luke stared down at his stomach and nodded. “What color? Pink? Red? Purple?”

“Red, maybe.” He thought a moment, mouth still pursed as if the taste of the paint was lingering on them. “What does red symbolize in Mandalorian art?”

“Red on armor…” Sabine bit her lower lip. “Honors a parent. Family.”

“Sounds good,” Luke replied, leaning back. “My father fought in the Clone Wars. I never knew him.”

A second star, dazzling red, joined its twin on Luke’s flesh. This one was higher up, more central, where the breastbone ended and first wave of abdominals began. The ripple seemed to convey the heat of the sun, blurred by scorched air. A good effect.

“And your mother?” Sabine asked, switching back to white for similar highlights.

“I didn’t know her either.”

“I see.” Sabine resisted the standard offer of sympathy. Sometimes maybe it was better to not know your parents. It was a loss for him, she understood that, but not something to dwell on tonight.

She finished the desert landscape with wide swaths of washed out color, almost yellow but not quite. The lighter pingo coated his skin like uneven sands, dappled in beige and tan. Luke noticed.

“What does yellow mean?”

“On armor, yellow is the symbol of Clan Wren.” Sabine looked up from her work and met his eyes. “My clan.”

Luke grinned. “Does that mean you’ve just marked me?”

Sabine grinned back. “No, that comes when I sign the art at the end. _Then_ it’s mine.”

“Can’t wait,” Luke’s smile got wider, a little more cocky, and Sabine wished it didn’t look so good on him, but it did. She felt her own body’s impatience and shifted on the thin mattress. Of course she wanted him—he was magnificent, with or without paint. But this was still fun, and she would try to draw it out. If nothing else, it was a competition with herself. And she _was_ doing very good work, she had to admit, despite the distraction of her canvas.

“What about gold?” he asked, lifting a finger to point to a color she hadn’t touched yet. “Shouldn’t gold be a highlight or something for suns and the desert?”

“Hey, who’s the artist here?!” Sabine mock-scowled, but leaned back and took the gold from the desk. “Gold is for vengeance, Luke. I won’t put it in your desert unless you think it belongs there.”

A shadow crossed his face and he shook his head.

“No, not there. But _somewhere_. Unless you have another color for justice.”

“Mandalorian justice _is_ often vengeance,” Sabine said, scanning his chest. “Taking revenge on those who have wronged you is fair.” His sternum was broader than it had appeared when he was dressed. The pectoral muscles provided her with a wide expanse of skin beneath his collarbones to explore. “But black is the symbolic color of justice.” She plucked the mug containing the darkest shade from the desk in her other hand. “Which do you prefer?”

He was quiet a moment. Undecided. Sabine knew that feeling.

“Both,” she answered for him, setting down the black. “All right?”

“All right,” Luke agreed, breathing quicker now as she picked up a wash brush and swept a thin coat of gold over his chest, a gilded layer on already bronzed foundation. He glittered, the paint sparkling with promise. Tracing the rise of his clavicle, Sabine dabbed thicker spots on the lower side, testing it as a highlight. She didn’t like it, too shiny, as if his armor was overpolished. 

Setting aside the paint, Sabine straddled Luke’s hips, hands on either side of his shoulders, and bent to erase the error with her tongue. When she had finished the left side, Luke’s fingers came up to her waist. 

“I’m working,” she whispered, lips very close to his, before returning to lick clean the underside of his right collarbone.

“Working,” he sighed, hands lowering.

“Enjoying my work,” she winked, then straightened, settling on his lap and picking up the black paint.

“Justice…” Luke said, eyes following closely as she took a medium-size round brush and rolled it in the ichor. 

“For you. For your family, your clan. For your friends.” Sabine spoke as the tip of the brush moved, smooth and steady, over the gold base she’d painted. Gradually the eyes of a shriek hawk took shape, decorating his sternum with their piercing black glare. 

“What is it?” His voice was quiet, awe-struck, and brought Sabine back to herself. What had she been thinking? Luke wasn’t a Mandalorian. He had no right to this…but it was too late. The paint had decided, and the Jaig eyes dared her to defy their claim to this warrior.

“ _Jai’galaar ‘la sur’haii’se_ ,” she answered in mando’a, almost a whisper. “A shriek hawk. A Mandalorian predator, one that defends its nest, striking from the sky.”

“Guess it’s good for a fighter pilot,” Luke remarked, a question in the words.

Sabine looked up from his sternum, where she’d been transfixed by her own thoughtless adornment. It had just been automatic—felt right. She tried to shake off the strangeness of her choice.

“It’s reserved for our bravest warriors. An honor, to be awarded them. To wear them.” She flinched slightly as Luke reached for her. “I…wasn’t thinking.”

“I’m honored,” he said softly, picking up on her concern. “But I understand, if it was a mistake…” Luke took the black paint from her fingers and set it on the mattress. “You can always,” his eyes twinkled “erase it.”

“No,” she refused, picking up the paint and setting it back on the desk, where it couldn’t be tipped over. She couldn’t explain it, but they were his now.

And, Sabine thought, what other Rebel could merit the Jaig eyes, save for the man who single-handedly had blown up the Death Star? She didn’t understand her impulse, but there was no questioning his bravery. Luke had no cultural claim to the honor, but surely a martial one. Sabine turned to pick up the red paint once more, surprised as Luke sat up quickly and stole another tantalizing kiss. It was getting harder and harder to maintain her composure.

“Are you all right?”

The question bothered her, and Sabine scoffed, feeling a welcome return to clarity. Whatever had made her decorate him like a Mandalorian, she would be more careful now. More conscious and less instinctive with her art. Luke was distracting, and getting more so by the minute. She could feel it in the tightness between her legs, the flip of her belly at the soft brush of his lips.

“Of course. Now…your pauldrons.”

Luke raised an eyebrow, a look that was undeniably adorable.

“Stop being so cute and turn to the side.”

He chuckled at that as he complied. “Cute, huh?”

“ _Too_ cute, really. But we’ll fix that with paint.” Sabine wrinkled her nose, grateful for the shift in tone. She made quick work of his shoulder, realizing the red “5” insignia as she had imagined it should appear on his X-Wing. She smeared streaks of stylized flight lines around it, mixing in grey—representing loss, so prevalent in his former squadron—and blue—symbolizing loyalty and reliability. 

Luke had angled his neck to the right, tracking her progress. “You’re amazing. This looks so excellent. I wish it was permanent.”

Sabine grinned at the praise, adding black flecks to finish the section. She blew on the paint to hasten its drying, enjoying how Luke squirmed between her legs.

“Getting impatient?” she teased.

“Aren’t you?” he groaned, hands skimming up her sides.

“So you don’t want me to do your thighs?” Sabine straightened, feeling a rush of need at his touch. 

“Whatever you want,” he sighed, palms settling back on the bed.

“Let’s do your other shoulder bell, Rogue Leader,” she winked.

“Lets,” he smiled that weakening smile, lifting his right arm to protect the paint as he twisted to give her better access to the left.

“White,” she explained, grabbing that saucer, “is for new beginnings.” She used a fan brush to soak up a good amount of paint. “So perfect for your new squadron.”

“Perfect,” he echoed, but he wasn’t looking at her brush.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a mascot yet or anything for the Rogues?”

Luke shook his head slightly, careful to keep the movement to a minimum. “Not yet. Any suggestions?”

Sabine considered, finishing up the white swirls she had used as a backdrop on his bicep. He had lovely arms, lean and well-defined, not too big. A good balance of strength and form. Really an ideal canvas.

“Rogue as a concept is pretty amorphous, art-wise,” she conceded. “So maybe something that has meaning to you personally.” She tried to reach for the green and almost slipped on the mattress. Luke steadied her, one hand lightly resting on her waist.

“Can I help?”

“No way, you aren’t allowed to move until I say so!” How could he help? She was sitting on top of him. “I just need the green.”

“What does the green symbolize?” he asked, settling back and keeping the arm clear for her work.

“Duty.”

The word sounded solemn when she said it, and Luke also looked more serious. “Maybe the Rebellion then, the crest.” He met her eyes. “Leia said you inspired it.”

Feeling an uncharacteristic blush touch her cheeks, Sabine abruptly got off the bed. “It’s a starbird—it can’t be destroyed.”

Luke nodded. “My aunt—she raised me—told me legends about those birds. They’re continually reborn in the hearts of stars.”

“Yeah.” She couldn’t say anything else, taking the green mug and kneeling on the floor alongside the bed. Luke rolled onto his back as she painted, staring at the ceiling this time instead of her work. The air felt heavier, thicker somehow. Sabine’s own breaths came shallow, her pulse pounding in her ears. This was supposed to be a silly fling with a handsome fighter pilot, and instead, it had evolved into something…different.

Although she was hurrying now, Sabine wouldn’t compromise her art. She looked critically at the logo. Something was missing. She drew the Alliance version of the crest, with the three prongs instead of the bird’s head, but it still was lacking…

Shaking her head, Sabine moved closer and mouthed along a generous length of skin, effectively eliminating the crest with three long stripes. The paint sizzled and sweetened her tongue. Luke shivered, and was silent.

“It’s not right, it needs something different.”

“Like what?” Luke turned to the side and Sabine took in her masterpiece, the Jaig eyes on his chest, the binary suns on his abdomen, the blend of color and flesh that was somehow both brilliantly artificial and yet naturally realized on his form.

“I don’t know. Something more personal. It’s good you know the legends, but everyone uses this crest. We’ll use it too, a version of it, but with something special—unique to _you_ , added.” She smiled, still lip level with his arm, and placed a careless kiss on that toned tricep. “Something that says ‘Luke Skywalker.’”

“Well…” His mouth twisted, lips tightly together.

“Tell me.” 

“I don’t know how you could…” He trailed off again.

“Luke.” There was gentle insistence in the syllable.

“Do you know anything about the Jedi?” he asked suddenly, sitting up. Sabine stared at him, taken aback at the question, but answered readily enough.

“Yes.”

“Yes? Like you’ve heard stories?”

“No. Yes like I know—knew Jedi. Why do you ask?” The correction was painful but the last thing she wanted to do was relive the sorrow of losing Kanan or explain her quest for Ezra.

His face lit up like a supernova. “Really? You’re not joking?”

“Why would anyone joke about that? Don’t be ridiculous. But I’d rather not talk about it, Luke.” Her voice had automatically turned harsh, and Sabine sat back on her heels, wondering where he was headed.

“Are they…” He thought better of the question. “Well, maybe can you put something Jedi in the logo? In the crest?”

Sabine snorted. First she bestows a _Jai’galaar_ on this guy as if in a trance, and now he’s asking for Jedi symbolism on his squadron logo? What next, he’ll tell her he wants to be Emperor?

“I’m sorry.” He must have seen something in her face. “It’s just—”

“Luke,” she interrupted, getting to her feet. “Drop it. I don’t want to talk about the Jedi.”

Silence, then he nodded. “How about an X-Wing then? Just maybe the crest and my X-Wing?”

“Sounds good,” she said, sorry for the loss of levity but grateful he was letting the subject go. Reaching again for the green, she repainted the crest, this time using the black to embed a tiny X-Wing in the bowl of the logo.

“Beautiful,” Luke said as she finished.

With a small smile, she moved back to the desk, transferring the red into the white and stirring until an almost neon pink appeared.

“What’s that for?” He stretched like a sleepy Loth cat, taking the full length of the bed, toes pointing. Luke was much more relaxed than when they’d started, no longer self-conscious. Sabine took a moment to enjoy the view, then spun the liner brush in her fingers.

“To sign my masterpiece, of course,” Sabine retorted. “But where…” she continued, amusement coating the words as she used the dry bristles to trace around the areas where she hadn’t yet painted. Luke’s reaction to the delicate strokes of her brush along his inner arms widened her smile as she went on, “…would you like it…?” She slowly grazed a line from the cleft in his chin down his neck, skipping to the hard muscle of his torso, and teased along the waistband of his underwear. The brush continued along his leg, dipping quite close to the source of his discomfort.

Luke’s body responded with a jerk as a faint moan left his throat. “Am I getting warm?” Sabine asked, arching an eyebrow. Luke’s eyes met hers, desire darkening their sky blue into something stormy. “Lower?” The word dripped the sex it deserved, but Luke managed to bring his breathing under control even as she trailed a line from one knee up the inside of his thigh. Sabine was surprised how steady his voice was when he answered.

“Artist’s choice.” He smiled, and the expression lightened his eyes back into something more casual than the unrestrained want she’d felt like a physical thing a moment ago. 

Sabine put her chin in one hand, pretending to think. She tapped an index finger against her lips. “I appear to be limited in surface area…by my subject.”

“Limited?” Luke’s voice was confused, then his mouth rounded in an endearing ‘o’ of epiphany. “You sure? I mean, no, you’re not.” He hooked his thumbs into the side of his basics and paused, question in the hesitation.

Keeping her thoughtful pose, Sabine nodded once, her eyes fixed to Luke’s face as he raised his hips and tugged the underwear down his legs. She saw him kick them to the floor in her peripheral vision, momentarily caught in a loop around one ankle.

“Better?”

She couldn’t pretend to not be impressed. His erect cock was like the rest of him, well-proportioned and attractive. It flexed in impatience, hard against his stomach, as she deliberately dropped her gaze. Luke Skywalker was a work of art, with or without her graffiti adorning his skin. 

For once she was speechless, and nodded twice, before submerging her brush into the bright pink paint with a purpose.

“Do I get to paint _you_?” Luke grinned as she approached, “after you’ve signed your work?”

“Are you actually an artist?” Sabine paused with the tip of her brush almost touching the base of his cock, teasing. “Or you just _really_ like foreplay?”

An abbreviated laugh escaped his lips. “No to the first, but definitely yes to the second.”

The answer, light as it was, surprised her—after all this she imagined Luke would be anxious for the main event, but she’d misjudged him. The hawk eyes on his chest seemed to glare a reprimand for her assumption. He was young, but he wasn’t half as inexperienced as she’d thought, that was evident. Of course, she chastised herself. Luke was the hero of the Battle of Yavin. He’d probably had more than a few groupies as a result of that alone, even if he hadn’t been so damn attractive. _And nice_ , her subconscious added.

Sabine pulled back, debating. But much as she wanted to test him, her own body wasn’t quite as accepting of the potential delay. Her armorweave would soak through if she didn’t get it off soon.

“Did I say something wrong?” Luke propped himself up on his elbows, head tilted in question.

“No,” she replied, trying to focus. “I can…” she trailed off, forgetting her intended phrase.

“This is a bit one-sided, you know.” His hand lifted from the mattress, flapping to indicate his exposed groin. “I’d like to—”

“Let me sign, Luke,” Sabine interrupted firmly. “You suggested the location, didn’t you?” Her tone dared him to contradict.

“Uh huh.” Quickly, before she lost her nerve, which inexplicably threatened to flee in the face of Luke’s willingness, Sabine scrawled her signature, but poorly spaced it. The curved surface twitched at the ‘E’ and a smear of pink zigged up from the line of letters.

“You’ll probably have to “erase” that, huh?” Luke grinned.

“You did that on purpose,” she accused, amused at his cheek.

“I did,” he confirmed, jerking his cock again to demonstrate the hands-free method. 

Unthinking, Sabine wrapped her hand around it, the edge of her palm at his base, thumb and forefinger holding him still.

A muttered curse was Luke’s eloquent response, head falling back onto the pillow. But when her tongue flicked out as desired, to ‘fix’ the smudge on his cock, it turned into a well-enunciated one.

Sabine lapped gently along the stretched skin, removing the bright pink, then took him half-way into her mouth. The tang of the pingo was delicious, the flavor of his cock adding to the taste. When she released him, a drop of precome escaped the tip. She rubbed it over his head with a lazy thumb.

“Was that _Huttese_?” Sabine tried to remember where she’d last heard the oath from his mouth.

“Yeah,” Luke gasped, struggling back up on his elbows. 

“So you’re telling me I should have drawn a _Hutt_ somewhere on you?” she asked in half-serious disgust, releasing his cock.

“No! Never!” he objected, horror in his voice. Luke’s right hand was restless; he was lifting and lowering it, in a battle to determine its placement. “Let’s leave the Hutts out of this entirely.” He shook his head then, blond hair flying comically, as if to jostle the thoughts from his brain. Sabine was charmed. “What would I say in _your_ language?”

“In Mando’a?” She was stunned at the question. No one had ever asked her such a thing, but she was amenable to teaching. “It depends on what you’re cursing about. Are you angry? Upset?” Luke shook his head. “Frustrated?” A small tilt of his lips, crinkle of his eyes. “Begging?”

“Closer to that, probably,” he smiled wider.

“Well, _gedet’ye_ is “please,” which could be appropriate... But…it’s not really a curse, even in this context.” Sabine dipped a finger in the hot pink pingo and held it before Luke’s lips.

“Gedet’ye,” he repeated obediently, a decent imitation of her pronunciation. Sabine’s eyes softened as he took her finger between his lips, sucking harder than before. Luke’s arms reached for her, coasting up her legs to settle on her ass, but Sabine pulled away from the bed. 

“So _now_ I need the curse for frustration,” he admitted after her finger left his mouth.

“That would be _haar’chak,_ ” she informed him, taking another step back.

“ _Haar’chak, haar’chak, gedet’ye_!” Luke recited and she laughed out loud.

“ _K’oyacyi_ ,” Sabine counselled. “Stay strong, pilot, you’re doing great.”

“ _Gedet’ye_ ,” he said again, sitting up on the bed. His voice had turned lower, serious. It was disconcerting—to hear her language at home on his lips, the sensual view dominated by her art that also somehow belonged to him now, a coefficient to his heroism. She couldn’t avoid staring, the want she’d been denying poised to overtake her like a dam past its breaking point. His cock was more than ready—her muscles clenched at the sight. 

“ _Udesii cyar’ika_ ,” Sabine whispered, surprised at the words coming to her lips even as she set the paint on the desk and twisted her arms behind her to start taking off the armorweave.

“Let me,” he said, standing up. Sabine turned to face the door, savoring the heat of his fingertips along her spine as the seam of her bodysuit split in two. Luke slid his hands down the narrow sleeves of the outfit, peeling it off her arms as his chest pressed up against her bare back. Sabine leaned into his body, distantly registering that the paint was still damp enough to transfer onto her skin. Luke pushed the thin material over her hips, hands tight against her curves as he repeated the same method he’d used on her arms. She bent briefly to yank off her boots, stepping out of the suit.

It had been her intention to instruct him, to tell him what she wanted, but the instant she was naked, Luke spun her into his arms and kissed her.

She hadn’t expected something like this, given how long she’d kept him hard and waiting. Haste—frenzy even—was more than justified. Maybe even what she would have preferred. But instead his lips met hers with a leisurely, even pressure. Sabine’s stained fingers climbed his painted chest, a sigh so soft it was embarrassing escaped her lips as his moved lower, travelling to her jaw and then around to that spot beneath her earlobe that absolutely drove her nuts. How had he targeted it with such precision?

“Luke,” she managed, surprised how good it felt to be crushed against him. A foreign sense of frailty washed over her. It normally would be off-putting; Sabine didn’t submit to anyone for anything. It was one reason she’d felt so liberated when she left the Imperial Academy—the end of enforced discipline, freedom from rank and the conspiracy of power. But this almost-stranger made her want to collapse in his arms and surrender to whatever he wished.

“Mmhmm,” he replied, and she could hear the smile in his voice as he dropped to one knee in front of her. The weakness in her chest spread to her legs as he placed a kiss on one thigh, a palm sliding along her ankle. 

She had no words, but her knees buckled as his mouth moved higher, teasing until she felt his tongue’s push exactly where she needed it. The pleasure was as much in the spark shooting up her spine as the sensation of his lips pulling expertly. How had she ever thought this guy was a novice? Sabine was no longer certain who had been seducing who, not that it mattered. Luke’s hands floated up the backs of her thighs, both supporting and holding her immobile as she shuddered under his tongue. There was fever in his oral technique, contagious and greedy; he wanted more, asked more of her, and she bowed into his mouth, trusting his hands to steady her as she yielded. Her breath came in gasps, rough and uneven, as her hands found his shoulders to stay upright, slipping in the still-wet paint on his right, tacky in the drying pingo of his left. His style was eager but uncompromising, drawing her higher and higher and then diverting his magic elsewhere until she was ready to climb again. 

Sabine was suspended in some spellbinding purgatory, forgetful of what came before or must necessarily follow. Reality had taken on an abstract quality, time as undefined as the rules of art. Over-stimulated nerves, relentless tongue, strong lips, and the heady scent of her own desire, unchecked and thick, consumed her awareness. When he finally released her, face wet with her slick, Luke scooped Sabine’s sweetly-tortured body into his arms and placed her reverentially on the bed.

“I didn’t come,” she complained into the air, briefly closing her eyes. If he didn’t fuck her soon, she’d kill him, she promised herself. Luke settled atop her naked limbs, a satisfied look in his eyes as he licked his lips. 

“I’m not done.”

“You better not be.” Sabine’s legs hooked around his knees, her hands seeking, gripping his ass.

“Just getting started,” he promised, the length of his cock trapped between their bodies as she pulled him closer. He did seem as tireless as his tongue, and Sabine vowed not to be outdone. 

She lifted her neck to cover his mouth, tasting herself, unable to help sinking into the intimacy of Luke’s kiss. It was suffused in happiness—a raw exhilaration transferring from his tongue to hers, abruptly separating her from the moment. Nostalgia already flavored his taste, his touch. It was an experience of discovery and departure, synchronized, without logic or rationale. 

The present had never felt so lost to her, and Sabine fought against the strange, dark current physically—nipping, biting, turning her hands into claws that raked up the planes of his back. They were here, _now_ , nothing was past. Not yet. She didn’t understand her reaction or instinct, but was powerless against it.

Luke defended by taking her hands, threading them in his, and exploring her mouth again. Sabine relented beneath his weight, accepting the brazen gentleness of him, the boldness of his control.

Sensing her capitulation, Luke’s mouth turned sharper, hungrier. Sabine spread her legs wide and tugged one hand free to guide him. In the space of a heartbeat, he shifted his hips and pressed deep inside. Their kiss was broken by the rush of it. Those blue eyes opened and held hers. Their intensity should have alarmed, but instead reached into the hardest, most frozen part of her, flooding everything with cataclysmic heat. She burned beneath him—nerves parched and blood simmering like the legendary bird of flames. 

Arching her hips to take him deeper, Sabine groaned as he obliged. Luke adjusted, supported by one hand as his other dropped between them. She hissed as he touched her again, the hypersensitivity a fresh souvenir of his tongue’s talents. Quickly he went lower, his hand wet with her, smoothing a new rhythm across her aching clit in time with his thrusts. 

Her orgasm was close, unfurling too rapidly for thought or pacing. Breathing now came only accompanied by short, staccato cries as Luke drove harder, the stretch of his cock dominating her senses as her body tightened and jolted beneath him. 

With a bitten-back scream she came, a drawn-out climax that spilled over like something her body failed to contain, leaving her breathless. Luke slowed, placing a wet kiss on her chin, then the side of her mouth as he stopped, completely buried inside her. His eyes were bright, hair falling in clumps before them, meeting her own. Sabine blinked, inhaling the recycled underground air, enjoying the heavy press of his ribs, the damp of his breath against her face, the bizarre respite he offered in the aftershock of her orgasm. She no longer felt seared like ash, but refreshed, like surfacing from a swim in the Kelita.

Sabine’s fingers moved up his arms, twining into his hair, and pulled him back down for another kiss. “Come on then,” she urged with a small grin, lifting her hips into his.

Like he had been awaiting permission, Luke began to move again. His cock pushed deep, then withdrew in an easy rhythm. Sabine put her hands behind her head, enjoying the view as he fucked her slowly. That shy grin that she’d found so irresistible in the hangar reappeared at her leer, and her heart clenched in her chest. It was unreal that he could still pull off that innocent look after fucking her senseless. She really _should_ have painted his portrait, Sabine thought with regret, memorizing his features. Her hands returned to Luke’s body, tracing its contours, the topography of his ribs and collarbones, gliding behind the curve of his ass when he moved faster inside her. The Jaig eyes, smudged on his chest from their combined sweat, seemed to stare into her as his pace grew frenzied. Luke’s mouth parted in a stuttered exhale, muscles tensed as one perfect whole as he pulled out just before coming.

With a hand, he scooped beneath Sabine’s waist and shifted her over to one side. She arched a lazy eyebrow in question as he stood, heading to the refresher.

Returning with a towel, Luke drifted as much as settled next to her, like a cloud arranging itself in the sky.

“Wasn’t necessary,” she remarked, watching him clean up. It was a conversation they could have had earlier, but admittedly hadn’t.

He shrugged and tossed the cloth away. She made no comment as it sailed perfectly back into the refresher, guessing her fighter pilot was demonstrating his aim in attempts to impress. Sabine was already impressed, or she wouldn’t be here.

Luke trailed a hand over her midriff and up between her breasts. He covered her heart, which was pounding a rapidly decrescent dance.

“Romantic,” she joked, letting him slip an arm beneath her neck. Pillowed on Luke’s decorated bicep, Sabine surrendered to a careless lethargy that was so rare it was practically unknown in her emotional repertoire. She knew this was an all-too-short distraction, but had no complaints regarding how her walking sunbeam had eclipsed all immediate priorities.

Luke’s response was a kiss where her shoulder met her arm. The sweetness of him was ineffable, this heroic pilot from Tatooine who charmed without pretense and enchanted without guile. Sabine turned onto her side, propping her head on one hand and scanning what was left of her art.

“Another mess,” he grinned, following her gaze, then furrowed his brow as she narrowed her eyes. “I mean, not the art, what happened to it.” 

“I know what you mean, Luke,” Sabine rolled slightly into his chest, pleased that he took the hint and wrapped her closer. It would be nice to just dissolve here, like chromomite in water. The thought wasn’t quite lucid, but there was no need for lucidity, not when his arms felt like shields against the rest of reality.

She had begun to doze when fingers against her scalp brought her out of the seductive warmth of sleep. 

“Mmm?” she mumbled, lifting her chin from his sternum.

“I like your hair,” he said, lifting some dyed strands and letting them fall back in disarray.

Sabine didn’t answer, lowering her head once more.

“Are you going to stick around?” 

The question wasn’t entirely unexpected. Sabine was used to having that effect on her bedpartners. It was one reason she framed her sexual encounters the way she did: time-bound, casual. And as much as she liked Luke Skywalker, the last thing she needed in life was another complication. That was the inevitable result if they tried to “make it work”—expectations that were too hard to meet, followed quickly by frustration, until disappointment appeared on the heels of something even more ugly. It didn’t matter if it was betrayal, indifference, or dependency—all equally destructive, all emotionally too costly to entertain.

“No.” The word was flat, and she didn’t follow it up with an excuse or explanation—she owed him neither. Tensing in his arms, Sabine braced for a follow up.

Instead Luke’s hands flattened against her back, rubbing soft circles once, twice, then stilling. Grateful, she relaxed, closing her eyes. 

“Can I sleep here?” he murmured a few moments later into her hair.

“If you promise to stop talking.” She burrowed a little deeper into his side.

He did, and they slept. Sabine awoke with a start less than two hours later. 

The lights were off, although she didn’t remember either of them getting up to figure out the controls. Maybe they had been on an automatic circuit. In the darkness, she could barely make out the figure of the man beside her; Luke had rolled away, facing the door, although one arm was still awkwardly trapped beneath her breasts.

Sitting up slowly, Sabine freed him, rearranging their positions and lay back down. His body heat was considerable, and she found it difficult to drift again. Twenty minutes later, she gave up, quietly going to the sonic and washing away the day. When she returned, Luke was awake, sitting naked and cross-legged on the bed.

“I wasn’t noisy,” she said, a little annoyed that he was up. Sabine let the towel drop and moved back to the mattress.

“You weren’t,” he agreed, pulling her into his arms again. She debated resisting, not wanting to encourage any thoughts of tomorrow and knowing she needed the rest, but Luke wasn’t easy to refuse. 

The second time, he was more playful, and she was better at keeping emotional distance. Luke commandeered her pingo, sticking with the broadest brush, dipping into bright pink and sweeping meandering paths over her nipples, lips, and stomach. The paint never had a chance to dry, his taste for the game—and for her—making certain of that. After her second orgasm, he doodled a fair approximation of an Iron Heart between her breasts. Sabine didn’t ask, didn’t want to know where he’d seen it, how he learned about the _Beskaryc Kar’ta._ Undisturbed at her silence, Luke licked it off quickly, his tongue’s heat felt from her toes to her ears. Without a word, he threw her legs over his shoulders and fucked her again. This time, she kept her eyes closed.

This time, they came together, both wonderfully wrecked by the force of it.

And this time, after, when he kissed her tense eyelids and offered to leave, she let him. Luke Skywalker was dangerous for reasons she wished she didn’t recognize—too accepting, too understanding, too confident, and too good at making her feel she could let her guard down, let someone else worry for a change. 

The last thing she needed was to fall in love. She didn’t have time, not now. Nobody did.

Sabine sat up, watching Luke dress beneath the room’s dimmer setting. He reached for his belt, and as she tried not to admire the lines of his hips, the item dangling from the strip of leather caught her eye. A streak of emotion too layered to dissect jarred her to attention.

_Don’t ask… Don’t..._

“Whose lightsaber is that?”

“Mine.” Calm, no hesitation, but there was something defensive behind the word. His reaction was more subdued than hers, when he’d asked where her armor was from, but Sabine immediately grasped the parallel.

A Jedi. _Karabast_. It would explain a lot. _Hera will laugh her ass off_ , Sabine thought, running a hand through her hair. Kanan too, if he were here.

“You’re a Jedi.” It seemed like the safest, most sensitive way to ask. Don’t assume he isn’t, don’t assume he stumbled upon the weapon, flaunting it like a talisman instead of mastering it like Ezra. Sabine still remembered fighting him, learning the forms. Kanan hadn’t minded teaching her. Kanan had been proud of her. He’d been proud of both of them.

“Trying to be,” Luke answered softly. “My teacher was killed.” She could ask more, his tone said. He _wanted_ to talk about it—wanted to share, to learn what she knew and hear her stories too. 

The surge of adrenaline that had struck upon seeing the hilt retreated like a rapidly ebbing tide, leaving nothing but exhaustion behind. Sabine couldn’t give him that, not tonight. Yet she wanted to give him something—hope, reassurance, show him the confidence that her Ghost family had shown in her, and in Ezra.

Slipping from the bed, Sabine stepped over to Luke as he finished fastening the blue tunic over the smudged remnants of the Jaig eyes on his skin. Its presence somehow made more sense now, although the opposite should have been true. She took his face between her fingers and held his gaze. 

“Don’t give up,” she whispered, stopping any response with a kiss.

His arms wound around her, pulling her close. The soft fabric of his clothes rubbed against her bare skin, making her want him again. The taste of him, the already-familiar press of his lips and tongue were complicit in a plot to keep her there, with him as long as he kissed her like this. It wasn’t just tempting, it was welcoming. Sabine pulled away, wordlessly begging him not to ask for more. She no longer trusted herself or her instincts where Luke was concerned, more confused than confident now.

“I wish the night was longer,” was all he said, releasing her with a brief smile before stepping back.

“Me too.” He moved to the doorway and, inexplicably, her stomach hurt.

“Rogue Leader,” Sabine called. He turned around, looking younger—once again the naïve kid from Tatooine from the hangar.

“May the Force Be With You.”

He rewarded her with that beaming grin, strong enough to ignite a thousand suns. 

“You too, Spectre Five.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations of the mando'a taken from the [Wookieepedia Legends page:](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Mando%27a/Legends#Vocabulary)  
>  _gedet'ye:_ please  
>  _haar'chak:_ damn it!  
>  _k’oyacyi:_ hang in there/stay strong  
>  _udesii:_ calm down  
>  _cyar'ika:_ term of endearment  
> Information on Mandalorian iconography (Jaig eyes, Iron Heart, etc.) can be found [here](https://www.starwars.com/news/mandalorian-mysteries-the-icons-of-mandalore), and for more about Mandalorian color symbolism on armor you can read [here.](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Mandalorian_armor/Legends)


	3. Epilogue

Sabine’s ship left ahead of schedule. Its pilot hadn’t gone back to sleep—the reason for her insomnia the talk of the hangar the following morning.

Commander Skywalker’s X-Wing had been vandalized, some gossiped, but most pilots admired the brilliant graffiti decorating the fuselage. The Rebellion Starbird’s orange wings had been segmented into a more feathered triplicate, its solid center marred by an exploding six-pointed red star. A thin black line bisected the symbol, reminiscent of a sword, outlined in gold. A few onlookers claimed they could see pointed, predatory eyes from certain angles lurking within the hemispheres, but the majority scoffed at the suggestion. It was Captain Syndulla, who, upon her return, sketched the symbol of the old Jedi Order for Rogue Leader’s information. He thanked her profusely, seeing sadness as much as amusement in her eyes.

“Will you tell her I love it?” Luke asked, unable to push Hera for more, perhaps stifling his curiosity out of consideration for the buried pain he could sense. “Please?”

“I will,” Hera promised, eyes brightening. “But I think she’d prefer to hear it from you.”

“Maybe,” he answered doubtfully, but there was a lightness to his step as he left the briefing room that day.

“Definitely,” Hera whispered to herself, remembering all too well what it was like to fall for a handsome young Jedi. And she would deliver Skywalker’s message, perhaps along with some unsolicited advice. After all, Spectre Leader still knew what was best for her crew.


End file.
